


The Invention of Magic

by Refictionista



Category: Carnival Row (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 03:55:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20500463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Refictionista/pseuds/Refictionista
Summary: There were two predictions… One prophecy involved a great man and and his even greater son.The second fortune was far more complicated, for what it involved was a good man and an honest man.Inside each of us, be he man or fae, there is the seed of both good and evil. It's a constant struggle as to which one will win. Well, people like to say that the conflict is between good and evil.The real conflict is between truth and lies.





	The Invention of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> While we wait for the second season, let's imagine our own.
> 
> _Disclaimer:_ This fan fiction is not posted for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Written for my complete and utter personal amusement, not to be taken seriously.

~ The Second Robinsday of Mithuna, DCXLVI ~  
~ a few months before episode one of season one, see footnotes ~

* * *

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Certainly,” said a pale elderly woman standing on the steps of the Balefire Hall, greying hairs peeking out from under her beaded turban. “You may tell Lady Breakspear that Madam Fintan has arrived.” She waved a gloved hand dismissively. “She will know the reason.”

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the footman.

Madam Fintan struck her swan’s head cane on the tiled floor in a subtle show of irritation, reminiscent of a school mistress regaining the attention of a woolgathering student. “I am expected.”

“Of course,” replied the chastised footman. “If you would be so kind as to wait here in the foyer.”

If Madam Fintan noticed the slight at not being shown immediately to the parlor, she made no mention of it. Instead she said, “You may take my card to her,” and pulled one from the folds of her reticule.

The footman took the card and nodded. It was crisp linen, cheap but of respectable quality, and simply read “Madam Bobine Fintan” in an ornate font. He nodded once more at the guards stationed at the door, brutish fawns who hadn’t taken their eyes off the old woman since she had stepped through the door, and left in search of Lady Breakspear.

Several minutes later, Piety Breakspear came down the stairs, her heels clacking rhythmically on the marble steps. She eyed the older woman shrewdly, seemingly making a decision and giving her a quick nod. “Thank you for coming, Madam Fintan.”

Madam Fintan curtsied and rose slowly, then leaned forward, supported by both arms on her cane. She cocked her head slightly to one side and eyed her inquisitively. “Lady Breakspear, the honor is mine.”

“Of course,” said Piety. “This room then,” she gestured to her right, “I’ll have some tea brought to us.”

Sighing apologetically, Madam Fintan shook her head and hobbled forward on her cane. “I will unlikely be able to stay long enough to enjoy such hospitality, but I thank you for the offer. With Jack about… You understand that I prefer to conclude my appointments ere sundown. However my lady, should you require refreshment, then please do not hesitate on my account.”

They walked into a small office, and Piety gestured for the older woman to sit, shutting the door behind her. “The Haruspex conscripted to serve my family for generations, she has spoken highly of you.”

“Aioffe, verily? I’m surprised.” Madam Fintan stared at Lady Breakspear, her second eyelids shimmering unblinkingly.

“You are aware, of course, of my keen interest in prophecy." Piety wrung her hands at her waist, a wild look in her gaze. "I have desperate need to change a prophecy.”

Madam Fintan shook her head. “And you came to me?” she asked, incredulous. “My craft cannot change a prophecy. I’m surprised that anyone who traffics in the dark arts would give you the idea that I could. Such a thing, Lady Breakspear, is simply not possible. Not even the holiest of mimas could do so, may Saint Titania bless their needlessly chaste souls. If your Haruspex told you she cannot do it and sent you to me, then you have been misled.”

“No, Madam. I was told a witch such as yourself could help me in ways she could not. Or are you a mima? I'm never quite sure about the titles your kind uses.”

“I see. A mima, my lady, is a fairy priestess. I am not of their religious order nor do I offer spiritual guidance to my clients. As for the magic I study," she smiled, "you are free to call me a witch… though I prefer occultist, as this is the term my kind uses among ourselves.”

“Your kind? You are not fae?”

“Indeed, and more. I’m rakshesha.”

“Vampire,” Piety hissed and backed away, looking eagerly to the closed doors and the guards beyond them.

Madam Fintan sighed. “No, and yes. Please sit. Seducing men to steal their life energy is a disease of youth, which usually ceases at the climacteric. Sit down. Though I’m sure you are far too polite to mention it, you can clearly see that I am too old. You need not fear me." Madam Fintan narrowed her eyes. "I said for you to sit, Lady Breakspear. A Haruspex who has advised your family for many years and is comfortable in her position would not have sent me if you could be harmed.”

Piety forgot her fear. “How dare you speak to me like that. This is ridiculous. I am not accustomed for a Critch to tell me to do anything.”

“I can always leave. Shall I see myself out?” Madam Fintan did not stand, merely tapped the tip of a gloved finger on the head of her cane.

Piety Breakspear was quiet for a moment, and then sat. She finally asked, “What—how can you help me?”

“A good question to start with,” she nodded, “yes, a good question.” Madam Fintan smiled in a motherly fashion. “You are worried about a prophecy once foretold. Correct?”

Piety nodded.

“I will need specifics for purposes of this conversation.”

“I was told by the Augurs on Mount Carpe that my husband, Chancellor Breakspear, would be a great man and that his son would be even greater.”

“I see. What fears about this prophecy lead you seek me out?”

Piety stood once more but—in a most unexpected manner—seemingly danced across the room. She did so silently and carefully, her previously loudly clacking heeled boots making no noise as her toes barely touched the ground. Upon reaching the other side of the room, she jerked open the door and checked for eavesdroppers. Piety then closed it and went back to her chair, with the same measured grace she demonstrated and just as quietly as she had left it. “I’m afraid…” she leaned forward, “I am concerned at the possibility—the slightest possibility, mind you—that this prophecy does not concern my son. I want a prophecy specifically for my son—my son—Jonah. Do we understand each other?”

“We do, Lady Breakspear. I can do my best, which is to say I can make a new fortune for your son.”

“That is similar, but not quite.”

“It would satisfy most of my clients.”

“I am not most of your clients.”

Madam Fintan smiled widely. “How rare to find a faan-troigh especially learned in the ways of magic. So you must already know, prophecies are carved out of divinity into stone. They are not made by practitioners, merely divined by them. However, fortunes are fickle things. They travel with the wind. A fortune can be nudged or even reversed. Your desire for something more… definite. I don’t know, Lady Breakspear. I don’t know what to tell you. I can merely offer what I am capable of doing. I cannot promise your son will be a great man, greater than your husband. Such things are beyond the control of any living creature, be he man or fae.” Seeing the tears in Piety’s eyes, she sighed. “I could perhaps create an opportunity for him to be a good man. A doorway to this future once created will be his choice. Only he can walk through it.”

“No. You don’t understand my son, that won’t work. I can’t take any chances.”

“Then perhaps I should leave.” Madam Fintan rose slowly, using her cane for support.

Piety grabbed her wrist. “Wait. Wait, please. I will buy a fortune. I’ll take what you can give me.” And then she closed her eyes, thinking that she would take this fortune and make sure her Jonah was on the right path. That would be easy enough.

Making sure he was in the original prophecy would be the hard task. She would sacrifice anything—_do anything_—to ensure that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. The only weekdays mentioned in the series were Gullsday, Swansday, and Wrensday, so Robinsday isn’t that much of a stretch. Please feel free to make suggestions for names of other days (and how long you think the week should be) in the comments. Right now… I'm leaning towards an eight-day week, like what was used in Ancient Rome.
>   2. Mithuna is the fourteenth month of the Darian calendar, a proposed system of time-keeping designed to serve the needs of any possible future human settlers on the planet Mars. The Mithuna is third sign in Indian astrology and is equivalent to the Gemini in Tropical Zodiac.
>   3. My thanks to eagle-eyed reader [paleogymnast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast), who pointed out in episode 1×06 there is date in Roman numerals on the poster for the "Treasures of Tirnanoc" exhibit, which states the episode takes place in the year 647 (DCXLVII). I've accordingly updated the year of my fic to 646 (DCXLVI).


End file.
